


A Swampful of Swans

by Lysaccia



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Action/Adventure, Attempt at Humor, Curses, F/M, Gen, Magic, Magic-Users, Mystery, some drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8056108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysaccia/pseuds/Lysaccia
Summary: The villagers of Tandel-in-the-Swamps have mysteriously disappeared. Is this the work of monsters, mages, or something altogether more sinister? A witcher and a sorceress try to get to the bottom of this.Time period: A couple of years before the Battle of Brenna.This is the first fanfic I've ever written, comments and constructive criticism are welcome!





	1. Chapter 1

A lone farmer’s cart travelled on the old road to Blaviken along the river Buine, two horses tied behind it. 

It was a clear, bitingly cold autumn morning. The night before had brought with it the first snow of the year, which now lay sprinkled over the landscape. Sporadic gusts of icy wind combed the frost-bitten plains that stretched for miles to the west. To the east, the river lazily meandered, forming a series of stagnant lakes. The sky looked impossibly azure in the crystal autumn air, and pale sunlight shimmered over the thin crust of ice covering the lakes’ surface.  


A flock of swans took to the air.

“Very pretty, the swans”, the cart’s owner turned towards his companion, а female half-elf smoking a thin pipe.“It’s them this place is named after: the Swan Swamps.”  


“The Swan Swamps? Does have a nice ring to it” the half-elf chuckled, exhaling a puff of smoke. “Although I must admit, Yaro, swans are only graceful while up in the air, or when swimming. They are far less impressive on dry land”.  


“Right you are, miss Mora” replied Yaro the farmer. ”Why, they stumble around just like regular old geese, they do --” The wind picked up again and cut off the old man mid-sentence. The half-elf grasped the woolen shawl wrapped around her head with one hand, her other still holding the pipe.  


“Where’s our witcher gone off to?” Yaro asked when the wind had subsided. ”Said he’s gone to look for herbs, but what flowers is he hoping to find out in the swamps at this time of year? You know, miss Mora, in our village the other day, we all thought he was pretty spooky . You know, dragging that bloody griffin’s head across the village square like ’ twas just some chicken he’s gonna make soup with .Walks all silently, big swords on his back, and got eyes like a cat and all that. But now that we’s travelling together, all he does is wander ‘round picking flowers all day, hasn’t drawn his sword once”  


“We’ve been lucky not to run into anything that would require him to do so,” Mora’s tone became slightly more serious, but she never expanded that thought. Instead she added, “He would also prefer it if you called those flowers ‘potion ingredients’. Our dear witcher’s always going on about how he doesn’t need them to make daisy chains with. Although I do think a daisy chain would complement his complexion quite splendidly,"she smiled.“But you are right, Yaro: flower-picking does take up a lot of Coen’s day, perhaps even more so than drowner-slicing.”  


“Aye, miss, that’s because the drowners only come out at night, he wouldn’t be slicing them up during the day now, would he.”  


“You know your swamp monsters well, Yaro”, the half-elf laughed. 

“Not much else out here in the swamps, to tell ya straight. Travelling by oneself here is downright dull—Ah, there goes our witcher. Heya, master Coen!”  


The witcher- a thin young man of barely twenty years- waved in acknowledgement. He proceeded to dump half a dozen bundles of flowery potion ingredients in the back of the cart. His horse, a large brown gelding, nickered in greeting.  


“You’ve got enough stuff in there to make healing potions for a whole village of witchers”, the half-elf raised an eyebrow.  


“Preparation is the witcher’s best friend. An unprepared witcher is a dead witcher. And there’s no coin in being a dead witcher” Coen shook his head.  


“More of your uncle Vesemir’s words of wisdom?”  


“Aha”  


“Fair enough”, Mora shrugged. “Oh, are those arenaria leaves? Could really use some for my pipe weed, makes a great blend”  


“Good thing I picked some extra then, don’t want princess Mora to get her boots muddy…”  


“Mm, precisely!” The half-elf nodded while stuffing her pipe. A thin blue flame then escaped her index finger and ignited the tobacco “You know, Coen, you’d make a great errand boy” she chuckled at the unimpressed witcher.  


“Miss Mora, if I may interrupt”, Yaro interrupted, “Master Coen makes a darn good witcher, and I don’t see no reason for him to change occupations. Ain’t no one in our village could kill that griffin that be eatin’ all our cattle. Must ‘ave been quite a fight, master Coen, something to tell them little witchers at witcher school about”  


“ Eh, wasn’t exactly a breeze, but still a regular day’s work for a witcher. “Like any monster, griffins have their weaknesses. A crossbow, the silver sword and the Aard sign are the witcher’s best friends in this scenario”, as stated in Brother Adalbert’s Bestiary . Common knowledge for a witcher, really”, Coen replied, attempting to sound nonchalant. Mora, having actually witnessed the fight in question, stifled a giggle. The young witcher would have found the fight a lot tougher without the Confusion spell she had used on that griffin.  


“So witchers do a lot of reading then,”Yaro sounded intrigued, “Wouldn’t have thunk so”. He smiled at the idea of a library full of studious witchers existing somewhere in the mountains of Kaedwen.

The conversation was interrupted by Yaro’s lazy old mare breaking into a trot, which caused a sudden jolt to the cart and its passengers. Coen’s herbs, which he had been carefully arranging into bundles, were now strewn all over the cart’s floor.  


“Aye, my good old Anya knows the road well,”Yaro laughed, “You see those houses over yonder? That’s Tandle-in-the-Swamps, a small village, but the innkeep’s got some great ale. We’ll should rest there for a bit, let my poor Anya get her strength back.”  


“What’s that tower, just east of the village? Looks quite old” what Mora had called a tower could also have passed for an unusually tall pile of rocks or an old ruin.  
“Why, I’ve never seen it before, miss Mora… Does look like it’s been sitting there since the Convergence, but I swear, ‘twas not there when I travelled this road during harvest not a month ago!”  


“That’s odd…” the witcher’s yellow eyes were squinting, scanning the distance.  


“Ya mean the tower, Master Coen?”  


“No, I mean the village.”  


“Village was surely there when I last travelled through these parts, master witcher.”  


“There’s no smoke coming from the chimneys,” Mora explained. “Looks like nobody’s home… or they all simultaneously ran out of firewood before the start of winter” her tone was dry. She gave the witcher a concerned look.  


“Coen, maybe we should ride ahead, make sure everything’s alright?” She had a strange feeling about this place. There was a faint tingle in the air, a whiff of the Power so slight that Coen’s witcher medallion could not pick it up. Yaro was completely oblivious to it, and probably for the better. Many places had naturally high levels of the Power, such as those marked by standing stones, but this felt more controlled, like the aftermath of a spell. Combined with a tower that appeared out of nowhere, they could be in over their heads on this one.  


“And leave me by myself?!” Yaro interjected, “What if what’s happened to the village happens to me too? It’s clear all’s not alright!”.  


“We may be overreacting, Yaro, there could be a valid reason for those people to not start any fires...” the half elf did not sound convincing even to herself. Yaro had stopped the cart, and all three passengers looked at each other in uneasy silence. The witcher stood up, jumped onto the road and started untying his horse.  


“Mora, stay with Yaro,” he instructed his companions. “I’ll ride ahead.”


	2. Chapter 2

Bobba, the witcher’s brown gelding, slowed to a walk as they entered the village.  


Tandel-in the-Swamps was by no means a large settlement, nor were its inhabitants particularly well off: most houses were small, their thatched roofs - unkempt. The ground floor of most dwellings seemed to double as a barn. _The heat from the animals warms the floor above_ , thought the witcher. _A neat trick when trying to keep your family warm in winter…if you can stand the smell and the flees, that is._ Nobody was too concerned with keeping warm, however. No smoke spewed out of the chimneys, reflecting the dead fireplaces beneath. Glass windows were rare, most of them - broken. Shutters dangled lazily from their hinges, emitting tired screeches with each gust of wind. None of the streets were paved; Coen could hear the thin crust of ice breaking under Bobba’s hooves, the mud underneath sploshing with every footstep.  


A strong gust of wind swept through the abandoned village, whistling and howling through the empty houses, rattling the loose shutters and unlocked front doors.  
The witcher smiled. This place could fit right into the stories his grandma used to tell him, a long time ago. He had been a sickly boy, so he got to hear many of her stories. He was ill so often that his father, a travelling merchant, never expected to see his son alive when he got back from his travels—  


Coen completely missed the events of the next few seconds.  


Bobba reared in panic, sending the reminiscing witcher flat on his back in the cold, sticky mud. The only thing Coen realized was that a set of sharp fangs were in dangerous proximity to his face. He instinctively cast the Igni sign, which sent the fangs and their owner scurrying away amidst whimpering and the smell of singed fur. With a trained movement, the witcher got up and unsheathed his steel sword.  


Surrounding him was a pack of wild dogs. The largest lunged toward him, only to be cut down with a precise flash of the blade. As he gained momentum, another two mutts fell to their bloody deaths. The rest made a run for it, tails between their legs. Bobba was nowhere in sight.  


The witcher let out a groan. Good thing Vesemir wasn’t around to see this one. He knew what the old witcher would have to say, word for word. _“Bla-bla, preparation, bla-bla, don’t let your guard down if you want to live ‘till winter, you little whippersnapper, now go do twenty laps around Kaer Morhen.”_ Coen sheathed his sword, then tried to brush the mud off his cloak with little success.  


Behind a corner some distance away, he saw the reason for the wild dogs’ attack: a stinking, half-eaten carcass. _Protecting their prey… They managed to take down a full grown horse? Judging by the trail of blood, the poor beast bled to death._ The bite marks around the animal’s throat were consistent with that hypothesis.  


“Can’t blame you for being scared, mate,” he addressed his missing steed. Gods knew if he would ever see that horse again.  


“You were a good beast, Bobba, very loyal. Except those times when you threw me off your back and onto my arse, I wasn’t too fond of you then.”  


The witcher made his way into one of the houses. The lock showed signs of forced entry and the place had been picked clean. _They even took the blankets and sheets off the beds._ He opened a few drawers, snooped under the beds. Nothing significant. An ugly rag doll, a rusty old pan… and a mouldy stuffed squirrel. Interesting, but completely useless. Some valuables had been stored under a loose floorboard, now long gone. There were no signs of struggle, no bloodstains, no corpses. Only the tools used by plunderers to force open doors and tear open mattresses had left any marks.  


He moved onto the next house. It mirrored the first, only the front door had not been forced. 

The tracks left in the muddy village roads belonged to dogs, ducks, geese and the occasional donkey. No one’s been around for a long time, the witcher sighed. Whoever or whatever did this – their trail’s cold by now.  


He had reached the village square. Empty, like everything else around here. _There’s the inn Yaro mentioned, and the big building next to it is most likely the mayor’s house. Might as well have a look._  


The mayor’s house had been a prime target for looters: almost everything not nailed to the floor had gone. _Hopefully the mayor kept some tax records, trading ledgers would be even better… Could help me figure out when everyone disappeared._  


A small room on the ground floor seemed to have what he was looking for: heaps of paper strewn all over the floor. Thieves were probably looking for tax money, or maybe for valuables hidden among the records. Didn’t care much for about the paperwork, though. He knelt to look at the mess on the floor. There were papers dating from over the last ten years; the most recent one he could find was from three months prior. _There’s gotta be more – Yaro was here for the harvest festival last month and knew nothing about the disappearances. Then again, it looks like they collected taxes every three months, so the next ones would be due around now. Just my luck…_  


The witcher slowly got up and walked to the adjacent room, the floorboards creaking and coughing dust under each footstep. This room looked onto the mayor’s back garden and, as expected, was as empty as a beggar’s coin purse. What drew Coen’s attention was a closed door on the other side of the room. _Hm, it’s locked from the inside. Thieves didn’t manage to force it open; they had probably amassed enough loot already and didn’t see the point in trying any harder._ The lock was no match for the Aard sign, however, as it almost blew the door out of its hinges.  


The witcher’s enhanced sense of smell was drowned by the putrid stench that burst out of the locked room. Coen took a few steps back and several seconds passed until his senses recovered. _Locked room was a privy, who would’ve thunk…_ Using his cloak to cover his nose and mouth, he took another look inside. The tiny room had no windows or furniture, with the exception of a large chamber pot placed squarely in the middle for the floor. Next to it was a maggot-ridden bundle of white feathers, formerly some kind of bird.  


_A goose, maybe? No, there’s a black growth over the beak, this is a swan. Makes no sense either way. Who would keep a bird like that indoors, and why would –_  


Coen did not get to finish his thought, as he was startled by a loud noise coming from upstairs. It’s probably the wind rattling the shutters again. But this felt different. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. The air felt tense and heavy, as did his stomach. Someone was watching him. The witcher slowly turned around and drew his sword. The room remained empty.  


_“Coen!”,_ a familiar but disembodied voice rang in his head.  


_“Mora!? Could have sworn I was being watched.”_ He lowered the sword.  


_“That could well be due to the tracking spell I used to find you, sorry.”_  


_“I’m not too fond of you sneaking into my head, you know that.”_  


_“Aha. But Yaro and I just caught Bobba, poor beast was galloping at breakneck speed with no rider. We were somewhat worried then.”_  


_“Bobba got spooked by some wild dogs and bolted, good thing you found him.”_ The witcher was more relieved than he let on.  


_“Has anything stranger than wild dogs turned up in that village yet?”_  


_“A swan locked itself in the privy some time ago and died, place smells like a zeugl’s lair.”_  


_“Ah, fascinating. What about the villagers, though? Are they really gone?”_  


_“Seems so. Can’t figure out when exactly they disappeared. The place’s been swept clean by looters, so I’d wager it’s been at least a few weeks… Looked at the tax records in the mayor’s house, the last one is from three months ago, so they were definitely here then, but Yaro could have told us that.”_  


_“Hmm…Have you been to the tower yet?”_  


_“No, why?”_  


_“Don’t go without me. If there was a sorcerer living there, which is generally the case for towers that pop up uninvited, it may have some rather vicious spells guarding it.”_  


_“Mora, I am a witcher, my whole life revolves around dealing with rather vicious things,” he stressed the word “witcher”._  
Mora was silent for a few seconds, after which she added:  


_“I will not take that personally. Anyhow, Yaro and I should arrive shortly, we’ll be waiting for you at the inn. And don’t go to that tower!”_  


_“Sod off, Mora, your magic’s interfering with my finely tuned witcher senses.”_  


The sorceress’ chuckle rang in his ears, then all was silent again.  


The witcher let out a sigh and moved on upstairs. The first room he entered had been a study, judging from the bookcases (mostly empty) and the large wooden desk stood next to the window. Coen opened the top desk drawer and a tiny smile appeared on his face as he pulled out a letter.  


_Hm, looks like the mayor was getting his daughter married off in a nearby village. Groom’s parents wrote this, wanted to know what the bride would bring as dowry. And the date… Three weeks ago, that makes it after Yaro’s visit._ He looked in the other drawers, but found no further correspondence, nor any mention of the mysterious tower.  


The next room had probably belonged to the daughter. Single bed, clumps of dead flowers adorned most flat surfaces, and a large cracked mirror occupied one of the walls. _No-one bothered stealing the books in this room, looks like. Can’t blame them, though: “Master Dandelion’s Love Ballads”, “An Anthology of Romantic Poetry”, “Lovers’ Laments”, who reads this nonsense?_ Coen’s interest in literature was confined to bestiaries and historic chronicles. Who needs fiction when the world is wild enough as it is? 

_Oh, and she even kept a diary. Last entry is from two and a half weeks ago._ He flicked through the small volume’s faintly perfumed pages. _No mention of the tower… She had a crush on some traveler: there’s a “He” with a capital H in many of these entries… Hm, the last entry is a rant about her husband-to-be. Apparently he wasn’t quite the prince in shining armour she expected._ The entry described the future groom as a “bandy-legged little man” with a “wart on his nose the size of a large pea” and who “smelled of pickled onions”. _Well, at least he was rich, the witcher shrugged._

He pocketed the diary, took a last look around the house and headed towards the inn to wait for Mora and Yaro.


	3. Chapter 3

Mora huddled into her cloak and fixed the shawl wrapped around her hair. She could no longer feel her fingers and toes, and her breath came out as a floaty white mist that had nothing to do with her smoking habit. The morning’s snow had mostly melted, but the strong winds had brought a blanket of dark, brooding clouds that showered the landscape in icy rain. A couple of miles away stood the dull grey silhouettes of the village houses. To the east, near the edge of the swamp, the enigmatic tower loomed like a giant eagle’s talon.

Yaro looked up, squinting from the rain.

“Well feck this weather! First the plowing snow, now the heavens start spitting!” 

“We should hurry, I can’t wait to be somewhere warm and dry,” Mora was not too fond of the weather either. She raised an arm to protect her eyes from the rain which now fell almost horizontally. “That’s enough rest for the horses, let’s go!” she spurred her dappled grey mare into a brisk trot.  
Yaro nodded in agreement.

“Come on, Anya, my dear girl, trot now, you can do this!” he beckoned the old bay mare pulling the cart. The group then disappeared into the rain amidst the sound of splashing mud.

Tandel-in-the-Swamps looked the same to Mora and Yaro as it had to the witcher an hour prior: empty, desolate and cold. They got attacked by the same pack of wild dogs, which Yaro dispelled with a few lashes of his whip. Coen met them outside the village inn.

“Bobba! Never thought I’d see you again, mate, the way you bolted!” the witcher exclaimed as Mora handed him the reins to the gelding. The poor beast had not quite managed to recover from the ordeal: its breath came out tattered through flared nostrils and foamy sweat covered large areas of its body. The witcher rubbed off the sweat with a clump of hay.

“Miss Mora, will ye help me unload the barrels?” Yaro called out from the other side of the stable. He was referring to the two barrels of lavender oil stacked in the back of the cart. The old farmer was hoping to fetch a nice price for them in Blaviken and use the money to buy warm winter coats for his grandkids.  
The half-elf muttered some incantation, and the two barrels levitated into the inn.

“Thank ye, miss Mora, carrying these by myself is bad for me old back!”

Mora nodded in acknowledgement as she entered the inn. Yaro and Coen followed suit.

The witcher had found some spare firewood, and a merry, crackling fire greeted the travellers. There was also a sweet, warm smell in the air, all in stark contrast with the abandoned and dusty interior. 

“Unfortunately, all the ale’s gone,” the witcher said, “But I managed to find a barrel of mead. Not the best, but it tastes great when you warm it. I’m also brewing a couple of potions, so you two make sure you drink from the right cauldron.”

“Coen, you’re the most thoughtful witcher I’ve met!” Mora exclaimed. Warm mead was just what she needed after the trek through the rain.

“I’m the only witcher you’ve met. But thank you, miss Mora, I’m flattered,” he finished with a smile. Coen rarely smiled. Mead must have warmed his sense of humour as well as his stomach, Mora concluded.

The half-elf took a seat by the fire, her fingers hugging the warm mug of mead. She stared into the flames, thoroughly enjoying the fact that she could feel her toes again. The witcher pulled up a chair next to her, lifted the lid of his portable cauldron and gave the thick brew inside a quick stir.

“So, you find out anything else?” she asked.

“Well, this was one hell of an orderly village: they paid their taxes every three months and even kept written records. Not that the villagers had much that could be taxed, mind you.”

“Then one day a villager caught the magic goldfish that whisked them all away from this swampy administrative hell?”

“Mora, your sarcasm will never be as good as that of a jaded witcher,” Coen’s friend and fellow witcher, Lambert, was the undisputed king of sarcastic remarks. “But seriously, these people disappeared about two and a half weeks ago, judging by this diary. Belonged to the mayor’s daughter,” he pulled the small perfumed diary from his pocket and handed it over to the half-elf.

“Wow, that’s some flowery prose right there!” Mora flicked through the pages, “A fan of poems, as well. Love poems, mostly.”  
“Yeah, she had a small library full of love ballads. Unfortunately, village life is not suited to romantics and their expectations,” the witcher began to filter the concoction he had been brewing into a small vial. Yaro winced from the smell. Mora didn’t seem to notice it: all her attention was focused on the small book and the two days-old ham sandwich she was nibbling. 

“Ooh, she definitely had some nasty things to say about the poor future husband. Not the way she envisaged her wedding at all… But arranged marriages are pretty standard around these parts, are they not?” she took a sip from the tankard. “ And this “He” with a capital H who came to the village about three weeks ago, do you reckon he’s the wizard from the tower?” she asked the witcher.

“Hmm, that’s what I thought at first, but she doesn’t mention the tower anywhere.”

“Yeah, you’d think a magically appearing tower would capture the imagination of a girl this prone to fantasizing. Maybe it’s only appeared recently, then, and this crush she had was unrelated.”

“Em, sorry to interrupt yous,” Yaro interrupted, “But should yous be snooping through the lass’s diary like that, seems a wee bit disrespectful, with all due respect.”

“It’s still evidence- might help us unravel what’s been going on,” Coen defended himself. He had finished pouring the vials and was now polishing his silver sword.

“Regardless, we won’t really know anything until we’ve looked around that tower, Coen. As soon as we’ve warmed up a little, we ought to go have a look,” the sorceress brushed the crumbs from her lap.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt again, but, master witcher, I’ve paid you to protect me and me merchandise on this here trip. Now miss Mora is hitchhiking and can do as she pleases, but I do not appreciate being left alone in an abandoned village ravaged by thieves, while the two of yous go wandering about in the swamps to look at some magic nonsense tower.”

“Would you like to join us, then?” Mora glared at the farmer, which made him feel as if her large, dark eyes were trying to burn holes right through his skull.

“Now that would be quite impossible, miss Mora, with all due respect” the farmer replied, somewhat flustered. “Blaviken is still a day’s ride away, so we need to spend the night in this here place even though it gives me the jitters. And I’m barring the door to this inn and not coming out, and the witcher’s not leaving my side if he wants to get paid. And I’m keeping me ole Charlotte loaded and ready!” he took out the rusty crossbow tied to his back and loaded a bolt. Then he sat in a chair facing the door, and readied the crossbow. Mora sighed and walked up to the farmer. 

“Yaro, I can put up a barrier around the inn which could keep all intruders away,” she tried to sound diplomatic. “I’ll also give you this amulet, “she opened one of the many small pouches attached to her belt and pulled out a small red trinket. “If you feel threatened, smash it. I’ll teleport immediately and bring the witcher.”   
Coen winced: he wasn’t exactly a fan of teleportation.

“You can teleport?” Yaro asked skeptically.

“Well I am a sorceress,” Mora smiled with the confidence of a highly-trained magic user.

“Alright then…” Yaro’s eyebrows were still locked in a skeptical frown. “But I’m paying the witcher one-tenth less than what we agreed on!”

“Deal!” the sorceress and Yaro shook hands. It was Coen’s turn to glare at Mora, but she dismissed him with a wave of her hand, a gesture that only served to annoy him further.

“Okay, miss sorceress,” he uttered in a low growl that startled the farmer, “You set up this barrier and let’s go to the bloody tower”, the witcher pulled his hood over his head, grabbed both of his swords, and headed outside.

Mora took a piece of chalk out of another pouch and drew an elven rune in each corner of the room. She then poured a thin line of salt over the threshold and faced the interior of the inn, arms spread out in a commanding manner.

“Vys ai quendirth!” her voice thundered through the room. The runes in each corner lit up, and the sorceress heard the familiar faint hum of a magical barrier. Yaro had no way of knowing whether the spell had worked, and yet he had loosened his grip on the crossbow and was staring wide-eyed at the half-elf. Mora waved him goodbye and turned on her heel to follow the witcher out into the freezing rain.

“A line of salt over the threshold? You trying to keep out the vengeful spirits of the dead?” the witcher mocked as they waded through the muddy village square.

“Strictly speaking, the runes on the walls weren’t necessary either, and the incantation itself could have been whispered or even just visualised. But the farmer feels safer as a result of the show, and that’s what we needed. Pity I don’t have a vial of virgin’s blood, now that would definitely have convinced him that I’m using some serious magic.”

“Virgins aren’t that easy to come by these days, eh?” the witcher joked, dryly. He then turned towards the sorceress and took on an even drier tone.  
“It is unwise, even for a sorceress, to come between a witcher and his coin. Your brashness just cost me a tenth of my pay for this journey.”

“And Yaro is paying you what- twenty crowns? I’ll pay you the two crowns, if that’s all you care about. And since when is escorting farmers witcher work, anyway? Or do you now moonlight as a bodyguard mercenary?”

“You are going to pay me? We both know your coin pouch is emptier than this village, oh mighty Mora Zadgorska, runaway apprentice from Aretuza, also known as Azarweni of the Scoia’tael. Or will you give me the dozen eggs you received as payment for the hemorrhoid cream you gave that poor sod from Yaro’s village?”

“That was low, Coen!” the sorceress protested. “And I’m not a runaway apprentice, I’m a Magister who was studying for a doctorate under the supervision of one of the brightest minds on the continent. He then turned out to be batshit insane, but all the brilliant ones are, anyways… And who knows what we’ll find in that tower: might make it worth our while. Or even think of the villagers, do you not want to absolve them from whatever horrible fate has befallen them? They might even repay you.”

“Or the thieves could have swept the tower clean already, leaving us two crowns poorer,” the witcher rebutted. “And what if it were a 200 crown contract? I would have had to say goodbye to twenty crowns. Twenty crowns is what I get for a drowner, it provides food and bedding for a week! And do not try to convince me you care one bit about the villagers, sorceress,” the witcher sighed. He could never figure out if his companion cared at all about anything but herself. He liked to believe that he did, although in this case he may have been more motivated by his own curiosity than out of concern for the villagers.

“All is within the realm of possibility!” the former Magister added, somewhat cheerfully. “With the high magical background of this place, our futures would look murky even to an elven sage. But I have a good feeling about this- see, even the rain’s let up a bit,” she pointed towards the sky.

Indeed, the fierce, icy downpour that had greeted them a couple of hours prior had now subsided to a mere drizzle. The sun could not be seen through the clouds, but the witcher estimated that they had about two hours of daylight left. Not that witchers needed daylight in order to be able to see, of course.

They passed the last houses of the empty village and ventured out into the swamps. Without the protection granted by the buildings, the freezing gusts of wind were merciless. In the vast expanse of the marshland, the lone tower rose in a feeble attempt to pierce the bleak skies. A family of swans that had sheltered under a tall clump of reeds took to the air as the two companions approached. Narrow, windy paths streaked the landscape, most of which led to a small shrine adorned with the blackened wooden figure of some local deity. The path that Mora and Coen had taken dwindled to an end in a cluster of cattail. 

“Follow right in my footsteps, Mora!” the witcher shouted through the wind, “One wrong step in this marshland and you could end up drenched!”   
The sorceress nodded and shortened the distance between them. Few people knew the outdoors better than the witchers, and their heightened senses were more than capable of spotting patches of solid land in a marsh. The two walked in silence, Mora closely following her guide. The only sounds that accompanied them were their own squelching footsteps and the roar of the wind as it swept through the reeds.


	4. Chapter 4

The witcher walked carefully and slightly hunched over, his gaze pointed at the ground, looking for tracks that would doubtlessly be left by anything passing through the swamp’s thick mud. So far, he had found nothing that could be of particular interest: a couple of drowners had either fought or copulated the night before and would probably be back after sunset. A third drowner had observed the scene from a distance and left a small puddle of thick blue fluid in that spot. Many tracks had been left by the numerous swans that inhabited the area. Another set had been left by a wading bird of some sort, most likely an egret or a heron. The tiny footprints of voles and swamp rats could be seen all over, and in one place it looked like one of the poor rodents had been snatched by a bird of prey.

Suddenly, the half-elf gasped and grabbed onto the witcher’s cloak, pointing at something in the water about a stone’s throw away. Coen instinctively drew his sword as he turned to face the direction she was pointing in. He took a balanced, defensive stance; his sword raised at eye level, prepared to counter an attack from any angle.  
But nothing attacked.

“What the hell, Mora?” he groaned as he lowered the sword. The sorceress did not respond. She was still looking in the direction of whatever had startled her, her right arm raised, fingers locked in an unnatural gesture. Coen focused his snake-like, yellow eyes on the area she was staring at. And then he saw it. It was definitely a hand, the hand of something that had long been dead and should have stayed buried. A blackened, skinny hand, adorned with a shiny golden ring. A hand that was slowly emerging from the murky waters under the influence of the half-elf’s magic. Slowly, a forearm emerged, then an elbow, followed by the rest of the anatomy, all as dark and desiccated as the hand had been. The full figure froze in the air over the reeds, hanging limply like a thief from the gallows. It had been a woman, judging by the long hair that hung in muddy clumps and the rags of what might once have been a dress. The figure glided towards the two companions at Mora’s behest. The look of the corpse and the way in which the sorceress forced it to move reminded the witcher of a nightwraith, although he was certain that what stood in front of him was no spectre.

“Woah, good find,” he nodded at the half-elf. “How did you see it through the reeds?”

“The ring’s enchanted, makes it easy for me to locate. It’s got some sort of preservation spell - probably part of why the flesh hasn’t decomposed.”

The witcher took a step towards the corpse and examined its spindly limbs with their thin, long digits, some of which still had nails, while others had snapped like dry twigs. The darkened, leather-like substance that had once been skin wrapped tightly around the bones and made the body resemble an ebony carving of some grotesque, long forgotten idol. Despite the sight’s gruesome alienness, the witcher found the idea of a mummified body emerging from a swamp somewhat familiar.

“I heard two merchants talking about something similar once: the bodies of people, dead for centuries, started turning up in a peat bog somewhere in northern Kaedwen. Gave the locals quite a scare; apparently they thought beings from another world had come to impregnate their wives and abduct their livestock,” he told his companion.

“I’ve heard of that case too,” Mora nodded, “But this is not a peat bog. It’s not even a swamp if we have to be precise; the correct term for this environment is a “marsh”. The acidic and anaerobic environment of peat bogs desiccates the flesh, darkens it and prevents the usual decomposition processes, but this should not be the case here. I think this body was preserved on purpose,” the sorceress brought the body even closer and started examining the teeth.

“No canines…” the witcher noticed. “ Looks taller than your average human, too. This was an elf.”

“Precisely,” Mora nodded. “Some of the ancient Aen Seidhe mummified their dead, but the practice disappeared ages ago. It’s now considered distasteful and disrespectful to preserve bodies this way.”

“So we find ourselves on top of an ancient elven burial ground?” the witcher enquired.

“That’s what it looks like to me. Doubt we’ll be able to find out more from this body though, I’ll just put it back.”

“The ring might fetch a good price in Blaviken, particularly if it’s enchanted…” Witchers were known to be practical beings and Coen was no exception.

“Come on… We’re poor, yes, but we’re not grave robbers. And you should know better than to take shiny things from ancient elven corpses. You never know what curses they carry.”

“You could tell me if the ring is cursed or not, sorceress.”

“I’m not going to, witcher!” Mora laughed. Her decision was final.

She pushed the corpse through the air to its resting place, then lowered it gently back into the water. Gravity took over, bringing the body deeper and deeper into the murky sludge. Air bubbles floated onto the surface, bursting in a revolting burbling sound. A few seconds later, all traces of the disturbance had gone.  
“We should probably hurry and reach that tower before it gets dark,” the half-elf said. Coen nodded and they headed onwards once more, keeping their eyes open for any other unusual finds.

Slowly but surely, the dark tower was getting closer. The witcher’s keen eyesight could now discern that most of its windows were broken. The stone-masonry on the top floor, just under the roof, seemed to have been weakened, possibly by the same spell that had left a large area covered in silver-speckled soot over the top floor balcony. The tower itself was located on a small hill and the area around it looked dryer than the surrounding marsh. 

“The tower looks abandoned,” he told his companion. “Difficult to tell much else from the outside… Any idea what spell could have left that mark just under the roof?” he asked.

“Looks like a standard fare destruction spell,” the sorceress replied. “Fireballs and related projectile energy spheres leave that exact same pattern when hitting a hard surface, see how it swirls around the edges. The silver specks could be the mage’s personal touch, but I think they come from the tower itself.”

“From the tower? How?” the witcher was slightly perplexed.

“It’s a special feature of these portable towers; the walls contain traces of silver and other metals that conduct magic, it makes them easier to –“ she stopped mid-sentence, before Coen could ask any more questions. Her gaze was drawn by a small rectangular object floating in the water nearby. The sorceress raised her arm again, and what looked like a large book obediently escaped the waters and landed in her open palm. She gingerly flicked through the soggy pages, unsticking them from each other and carefully inspecting each one. The witcher observed as her initial look of excitement slowly subsided and frustration took over her fine half-elven features.  


“It’s mostly been destroyed…” she informed the witcher.

“But what is it, exactly?” he inquired. The half-elf passed him the tattered book. He now noticed that there were deep gashes on the cover, some of which had even pierced the paper inside. Many pages were missing; the ones remaining were soaked and exceedingly frail. The ink had run from the swamp water, making most of the tome’s contents entirely incomprehensible.

“It’s a lab book, presumably contained the data from whatever experiments the mage in the tower was conducting. There were tables, diagrams – all illegible now. The occasional word or number can still be made out, but that’s not enough. Let’s hold on to it just in case, though, I might be able to determine something more once we’re back at the inn,” Mora explained.

“I wonder what left these… They look more like claw marks than cuts,” the witcher ran a finger over the deep gashes on the book’s cover. “Perhaps the mage got attacked by something and was trying to protect his notes?” he asked.

“If the aim was to protect them, he did a very poor job. And if the mage was being chased, he probably teleported to some far away safe location, that’s what I would have done,” the sorceress sighed. 

“Maybe the mage is no longer around, but we should be able to find more evidence on what’s been going on if we keep our eyes open,” Coen told her. He looked towards the lone structure in the distance and added, “ Can you make out what spells are protecting the tower yet?”

“No, I’d need to be closer,” Mora replied. “But I’d bet you ten crowns there’s a golem guarding it!”

“Ahaha, I’m not taking you up on that bet, my dear sorceress!” the witcher laughed. “That was my first thought when you mentioned that this is likely a mage’s residence. I’ve made the necessary preparations… but I’ll admit that fighting a golem’s the fastest way to ruin a silver sword, or at least so I’ve been told. The bloody creatures are essentially made of rocks,” he frowned.

“Magically mobilized rocks, yeah,” Mora nodded. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to have a special silver pickaxe for the likes of golems and elementa, rather than use a sword?” she asked, partly in jest.

“Never thought of that, to be honest…” her companion entertained the notion.” I might pitch that idea to the other witchers at Kaer Morhen, see what good old Vesemir thinks. They’ll probably laugh their asses off,” Coen chuckled.

“I suppose the witchers are not ones to pursue innovation and optimization, then,” the half-elf shrugged.“ But I have some good news for your weapons budget: we’ll not be using your method to fight the golem. I’ve a better one.”

“Oh,” the witcher’s reply showed his skepticism towards the proposition. _Must be the mages’ famed arrogance: thinking they know more than the trained professionals…_ He kept that thought to himself.

“Basically, I’ll use a spell to paralyze the golem,” Mora explained. “ Then, you will insert a metal rod up its arse, which will serve as a conduit for the bolt of lightning that I will summon. The shock from that should produce a large interference, inactivating the spells that keep the golem functional,” her expression was dead serious. The witcher, on the other hand, was staring incredulously.

“Up its arse?” Coen could not begin to explain just how daft that entire plan sounded.

“Yes, up its arse,” the sorceress confirmed. “Its bum, its booty, behind, derriere, buttocks, the place where the sun don’t shine, poophole, rear entrance… Shall I continue?” she was having far too much fun teasing the witcher.

“And where will we get the metal rod, then?” the witcher asked in a dry manner.

“You carry two on your back, do you not?” Mora pointed to the witcher’s twin swords. “Doesn’t matter which one you use, the shape and exact composition of the rod are not crucial to our plan.”

“And neither is the exact placement of the rod on the golem, I presume?” Coen was still not convinced that his companion was not pulling his leg.  


“You’re right, it’s not. But I think you’ll find that particular area easiest to penetrate, I’m serious!” the sorceress was struggling to stifle her grin. The witcher winced at her choice of words. He shrugged his shoulders and let out a sigh.

“Okay, Mora, we’ll try your plan first. But only because I’m broke and cannot afford a new sword right now… And if your idea fails, we’ll go back to my plan and deal with this the good old witcher way.”

“You’ve got a deal, master witcher!” the half-elf gave him a firm handshake.

They resumed wading through the marshes.

The witcher walked in front, choosing a solid path amidst the thick brown-green sludge littered with reeds. In the final half-mile separating them from the tower, he saw a few more objects scattered around the swamp. The sorceress called them into her hand, carefully inspecting each one: a broken megascope crystal, the remains of a staff, and a strange-looking instrument, the purpose of which was a mystery to Coen.

“It’s called a metallo-crystal detector,” the half-elf explained. “It makes a very good tracking device, as it locates any target of interest as long as they’re wearing a metal object” she added while examining the instrument. “Unfortunately, this too has been irreparably damaged.”

“You’ve said that about all the items we’ve come across so far,” Coen lifted an eyebrow. 

“And they were all objects I could have used to figure out what happened, too…” the sorceress complained.

“That considered, it almost looks as if someone was deliberately destroying evidence.” he stated.

“And dragging it away from the tower? I don’t know, Coen, this strikes me as an odd way to dispose of evidence… Surely setting fire to the place would get rid of all the traces much quicker?” she asked the witcher. 

Coen did not respond, as he was busy wading through the mud and shallow water to the place where they had found the remains of the detector. Mora grabbed the edges of her cloak to make sure they did not get drenched and followed the witcher. She found him squatting next to a cluster of cattail, looking at something on the ground.

“Here’s where the detector was lodged… You can see that something or someone was thrashing it about until it broke, most likely when it hit this large stone over here,” he told the sorceress, pointing at the scattered crystal shards around the stone in question. “And these tracks… highly unusual, particularly in a swamp area,” he shifted his focus on the multitude of footsteps that littered the surroundings.

“They look like drowner tracks to me…” the sorceress muttered under her nose.

“And that’s why you’d make a piss poor witcher, Mora,” Coen chuckled,” Drowners have webbed feet, that much at least should be obvious. This creature’s footprints look like it was half-bird or lizard, and half-humanoid.”

“A harpy, then?” Mora guessed. “I remember my grandfather telling me that they collect shiny things, like magpies do. Might explain why it was so fascinated with the stuff in the tower.”

“If we were up in the mountains, or at least near a cliff-face, that might have been possible. But harpies are generally not found on this kind of terrain, they would not have anywhere to nest. And they usually carry the shiny things back to their nests, and not drop them in the middle of nowhere,” the witcher explained. He then continued: “It looks like this creature came out here, trashed the instrument, and then went back in the direction of the tower.”

“So whatever it is, we’re likely to find it there,” Mora’s response was a statement rather than a question.

“Precisely”, the witcher nodded.

They followed the curious tracks towards the tower. The creature had not bothered to circumvent patches of deep water and the prints disappeared in places, only to reappear a short time later on the other side of a puddle. This presented no challenge to the young witcher’s tracking ability and the two companions were steadily approaching the dark tower that loomed ever so ominously in the fading daylight.

The witcher suddenly stopped and crouched down. He had found another set of tracks, this time from a vastly different creature.

“Looks like our golem’s passed through here,” he informed Mora. “ I can’t see him anywhere around the tower, though,” they were now about a couple of stone throws away from their goal, so an eight foot tall magically-powered heap of rocks should have been easy to spot.

“I see it, though,” the sorceress whispered. “It’s that pile of rocks, just right of the door.”

“I see it, yeah,” the witcher squinted. The pile of rocks in question appeared to have stood immobile for centuries. “Are you sure it’s still active?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes it is,” the sorceress confirmed. “It will only present a threat once we’ve crossed the tower’s first barrier, about ten steps forwards from here. It would be best if we could surprise it, though.”

“I could throw a bomb just inside the barrier to distract it; once it’s gotten close enough, you’ll cast the paralysis spell and we’ll follow your plan from there,” Coen suggested. Mora nodded in agreement, readying the spell at her fingertips.

The witcher crouched and hid among the reeds, sneaking to a place about fifteen meters away from where he had left the sorceress. He then took one out of the multitude of small spheres he kept in a pouch on his belt. _We need something that will raise a racket, so using a dimeritium bomb or Moon Dust would only be a waste of resources. A Samum bomb should do the trick: it detonates in a loud bang and produces a flash so bright one can wake a bear from hibernation… Let’s hope it works on sleeping golems, too. According to the old saying, you should let sleeping golems lie. But that’s not really an option right now, is it…_

He fished through the bag, looking for a ball marked with one red and two yellow stripes, and then threw it in the direction where the barrier stood. It detonated not too far from the crouching witcher, in a place that would not give away his location to the granite sentinel.  


For the first few seconds after the blast, nothing much seemed to happen. The wind swept through the marsh, as it had done all day. The sun was on its way to the horizon, somewhere behind the thick blanket of clouds. The tower stood tall and dark, its guardian resembling a forgotten burial mound.  


Until it moved.

Amidst the sound of cracking and the rumble of moving rocks, the creature slowly rose to its feet. Faint steaks of purple light marked the spells used to bring the giant to life, its limbs a mismatched array of tools created with the sole purpose of smashing intruders. It took a step towards the place where the samum bomb had detonated. If the ground were dry, even Mora, hidden a safe distance away from the construct, would have been able to feel it tremble under the golem’s weight. In the thick mud of the swamp, its feet sank with every footstep. This did not seem to influence the creature, as it steadfastly proceeded in the direction of its target, the swamp’s sludge squirming and squelching underneath.

 _When do you want me to cast the spell?_ Mora’s voice rang in the witcher’s head. He flinched at the sensation, then immediately steadied his breath. His medallion was vibrating madly from the golem’s proximity .The creature had its back to him, so he took the opportunity to shorten the distance between them. Still hidden in the reeds, Coen took a few wary steps in the direction of the tower’s granite guardian.

 _It will reach the spot where the bomb set off, and then it should pause for a few seconds to scan for intruders,_ he told the disembodied voice in his head. _That is when you’ll cast the paralysis spell on the golem and I’ll jump out of the reeds and stick my sword up its arse, as you put it_ , he instructed the sorceress. 

_Okay, it’s reached the spot. Now on the count of three, Mora! One… Two…_

On the count of three, Mora flung the spell at the golem, freezing its large, stony mass. As artificial beings with no emotions, however, golems were not ones to get flustered, and the magically powered servant immediately started resisting the spell.

 _The descriptions of the golems’ strength in Tissaia de Vrie’s textbook are not at all exaggerated, the sorceress thought. Don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep this one in check…_ With her free hand, she touched the hilt of the long dagger attached to her belt and instantly felt a wave of the Power strengthening her bind on the golem.  


“COEN, SHOVE IT UP ITS ARSE ALREADY!” she yelled at the hidden witcher. 

Coen sprung out from his hiding place, steel sword in hand. He used the entire weight of his body to lodge the weapon in the golem’s backside with a single, decisive thrust.  
The golem did not react well to being penetrated. It mustered all the physical power that its activating spells would allow, their purple steaks swirling all over its surface. It then released all of it in a single, powerful burst, which broke Mora’s spell with little difficulty. The witcher noticed this change in circumstances and quickly cast the Yrden sign, hoping that the magical trap would slow the golem long enough for him to roll out of its way.

The towering construct stepped into the magic circle, which slowed its arm as it swiped towards the witcher, aiming to deliver a bone-crushing blow. Coen jumped away just in time; he watched as the golem lost its balance, its arm failing to come into contact with the witcher’s body. This bought him a few milliseconds during which he unsheathed his silver sword, the blade dripping with putrid acidic oil. He pirouetted, aiming to strike the golem from its unprotected behind. Coen’s body intuitively executed in the movements that Vesimir had drilled into the young witcher over the years. The silver blade swished under the golem’s arm, prepared to leave a gash just above the spot where the witcher’s other sword was lodged.

And then the witcher slipped.

Coen lay flat on his back in the mud, for the second time today.  
“Icy and muddy terrains are arguably the most dangerous places for a swordfight to take place, and many a good witcher have slipped to their deaths there,” he remembered Vesimir’s words of wisdom.

_“Well it looks like this witcher is about to join them.”_

The golem quickly reacted to its opponent’s error, turning its body around with uncanny speed, considering its massive bulk. As its arm swung towards the prone witcher, Coen knew that there was not enough time to dodge out of the way.

A blinding flash of light ensued, and the young witcher was certain that his soul was ascending to the heavens. The flash was followed by a thundering roar, and Coen realized that he was still prostrated on the muddy ground, yet the golem had inexplicably stopped its advance.

The creature stood immobile, silver fractals of electricity taking the place of the spell that gave it life. They too then disappeared, leaving a dry, dead pile of rocks hanging ominously over the witcher. In an instant, he understood what exactly had happened and rolled away quickly, avoiding the pieces of the inactivated giant as they fell to the ground. He saw the sorceress rushing towards him across the marsh, not without difficulty due to the swampy terrain.

“Stellar work, master witcher!” she congratulated him with a pat on the shoulder. “Despite the minor hiccup at the end,” she smiled. The witcher pursed his lips at that last part.  
“What you term a “minor hiccup” almost terminated my life, you know!” he reprimanded.

“But it did not, right? That’s what separates a “minor hiccup” from a “tragic accident”, at least in my mind,” she said cheerfully as the witcher tried to pull his sword out of the golem’s remains.

“You took your sweet time with that lightning spell…” he remarked while cleaning the blade with a clump of grass.

“I’m terribly sorry about that,” the sorceress began to apologise. “The strength with which the golem broke my hold knocked me off balance, and I lost the lightning spell I had prepared, had to cast it all over again. Thank you for not throwing any dimeritium bombs around, that would have made my day a lot worse.”

“Do you think me some sort of imbecile, throwing around dimeritium while expecting help from a spellcaster?” Coen’s pride still hurt a little from the encounter.  
“I was simply complimenting your composure,” the half-elf defended herself. “People do all kinds of stupid shite when their lives are in danger. But then you’re a witcher, you’re better than that.”

Coen nodded and took a few steps forward.

“Look, we weren’t the first intruders the golem had to deal with. This one wasn’t as lucky…” he pointed at the bundle of rags and decomposing flesh that was all that remained of an unfortunate looter. 

“Ugh, there’s hardly anything left of the skull, the golem probably smashed it with a single blow,” Mora winced. “It was a rather quick death, at the least.”  
The witcher was not listening to her.

“Mora, come look at this!” the hollered. “There’re three different types of rock surrounding the base of the tower, and I’m not sure they’re even found in this region of Redania.”  
The sorceress walked over to the place where he was squatting.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you when you asked me about the silver specks on the tower,” she clarified. “I’ve seen these towers before; they’re quite popular with some of the more prominent mages. There’s this Koviri sorcerer who opened up a workshop that makes portable mage dwellings. I believe this one’s catalogued as a “Portable Field Research Unit.”

Coen gave his companion an incredulous look, which she promptly ignored.

“The walls of the tower are laced with traces of silver and other magic-conducting metals, which makes them very responsive to spells. It also means they require less energy in order to be teleported across large distances. I guess these rocks represent artefacts of the teleportation process: they got scooped up along with the tower, essentially. If I had any interest in geology whatsoever, I would probably be able to tell you where this tower’s been,” she finished explaining. Coen was still not quite sure whether she was joking or not.

“So you’re trying to tell me that someone teleported an entire tower at least three times?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s the main reason why people buy them, and they’re ridiculously expensive. This one looks like it only has the bare essentials for a mage’s laboratory, but some of the fancier models even come with pocket dimensions offering extra storage space or entertainment facilities,” she replied. Then, in a lower voice, she added: “You know, I heard that nympho, Keira Metz, owns one with its own bathhouse. Apparently she uses it to, you know, have orgies and stuff.”

“You sorceresses live in a strange, strange world,” the witcher shook his head. “Back to more pressing matters, are there any other protective enchantments I should know about?” he asked the sorceress.

“The golem will take care of most intruders, as demonstrated by that poor sod decomposing in the mud,” Mora started her explanation. “There’s also a second barrier guarding the entrance. Upon activation, it casts a spell producing the Archmagister’s gas, a vile compound that eats at the flesh and suffocates anything it comes into contact with. It’s a fairly standard protective enchantment, yet incredibly deadly. Fortunately, the barrier has weakened due to the mage’s absence, I should be able to deactivate it by—“ she paused, taking on a pensive expression. “Well, you don’t need to know the exact details, wouldn’t understand them” she mentioned to the witcher.

Mora then walked up to the tower’s entrance and took out the dagger that hung from her belt. The obsidian blade shone with a faint blue light as she raised it above her head, both hands gripping the hilt. Coen’s medallion vibrated furiously, for the second time today.

“Darshalla aen gobeel, Darshalla aen kazeen! Gal’chve!” the sorceress yelled, as she stabbed the dagger in the tower’s front door. Veins of blue light stemmed from the blade, forming a downturned pentagram on door’s wooden surface. Blue tendrils of the Power radiated from it, spreading over the entire bulk of the tower. Mora took a step back and turned both her palms towards the sky.

“Deireádh!” she uttered the final component of the incantation. In the settling dusk, the tower lit up with an eerie blue light. Then all stood silent again, as the sorceress walked up to the door and pulled out the dagger, tucking it safely back in its scabbard.

“Now, to figure out what this mage was up to!” she cheerfully turned the handle and stepped inside, the witcher close at her heels.


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing they noticed about the inside of the tower was its darkness. Coen looked at Mora, his mutated eyes reflecting the scarce light like those of a cat. The sorceress was less well equipped to deal with low-light conditions.

“Gavella glan!” she muttered under her nose. The spell produced an orb of bright white light, revealing the tower’s interior to the two companions. 

The room that appeared out of the darkness was unsettlingly ordinary. The tapestries decorating the walls depicted classical scenes from the history of magic; similar ones could be found in mage dwellings and academies all across the continent. Two elegant chairs flanked a small table, on top of which were drawn all the fields needed for a game of Gwent. The far end of the square room housed a counter, behind which stood shelves upon shelves of tiny vials and other magical paraphernalia. The far left corner was obscured by heavy blue curtains, and behind it was a single, clean bed. 

“This is most likely where the mage received visitors and sold magical trinkets.” Mora walked up to the counter. “Aphrodisiacs, cures for acne, diarrhea, constipation, anti-aging creams… all things that richer villagers would pay for.” 

“What about the bed?” Coen asked. 

“That’s for those cases when the constipation cure doesn’t work and direct magical intervention is required.” 

“Fascinating…” The witcher shook his head. “Notice how everything’s still in perfect order, though?” he gestured at the room. 

“Yeah, our vandalizing creature has chosen to completely ignore this floor of the tower.” 

“But it did pass through. Look at the ground.” 

Indeed, anything entering the tower from the swamps would certainly have carried mud and sludge all across the marble floor. Mora and Coen had both ignored the doormat, and the brown-green trail left by their dirty boots bore testimony to that. The creature had also chosen to ignore the doormat quite a few times, its tracks forming a wide, brown streak across the floor and up the winding staircase. 

“The laboratory is probably upstairs, then,” Coen pointed out. Mora nodded in agreement, and they both headed up the stairs to the floor above. 

The place had been trashed, which surprised no-one. The remains of the megascope, the crystal from which they had found earlier, lay sprawled across the center of the room. Tiny scraps of paper littered the floor, all of which appeared to be torn out of lab books. 

“I wonder how the creature managed to avoid the golem,” Coen said as he squatted to inspect the mess on the floor. “Do you reckon the brute was ordered to attack only humans?” he asked. 

“I don’t see the point in restricting the definition of “intruder”, particularly when your closest neighbours are swamp monsters…” Mora crouched next to him. “An incorporeal creature could pass through the barriers without activating them. But then, our mystery monster leaves tracks, so it can’t be incorporeal all the time… Or, maybe, it can teleport. Do teleporting monsters exist?” she asked. 

“Most vampires can turn incorporeal, as can foglets, and some leshens… But those tracks definitely did not come from any of these, that I can tell you with certainty. ” Mora nodded and picked up a piece of paper. The creature had meticulously shredded the lab books, leaving no pieces larger than a Temerian oren. 

“I once knew a sorcerer with similar handwriting,” Coen felt a tang of nostalgia in her voice. “But he’s far too ambitious to ever wind up in a desolate place like this,” she shook her head. 

“And I think this handwriting reminds me of Geralt’s,” the witcher smiled, no doubt remembering a nostalgic episode of his own. 

“How did you find out that the famous White Wolf doesn’t cross his t’s?” Mora raised an eyebrow. 

“Well…I suppose there’s no harm in telling you,” the witcher gave Mora a conspiring look. “So last winter, Eskel and Lambert found an annotated copy of Dandelion the bard’s ballads in Geralt’s room. The ballads describing Geralt’s illustrious exploits, to be precise.” Mora was all ears, so Coen continued: “Everywhere the bard had made something up or twisted the truth, our witcher had added a detailed description of what actually had happened.” 

“He likes reading about himself? That sounds a bit self-absorbed…” the sorceress chuckled. 

“I guess so,” Coen nodded, “But the best part was that he included descriptions of his… you know… more private encounters. In vivid detail, too,” he laughed. “And then the book started circulating around Kaer Morhen, we even staged a dramatic reading… Generated enough gossip and material for lewd jokes to last all winter! Geralt still hasn’t quite forgiven us, I think,” he grinned. 

“So what lewd jokes did you come up with?” 

“You’d have to get me drunk if you want to hear them,” Coen joked as he stood up. “Back to matters at hand, what’s that instrument over there?” he pointed at something resembling a brass candelabrum, its two arms ending in spheres instead of candles. 

“That’s a potentiometer, it measures levels of the Power. Very useful when identifying magical disturbances,” Mora explained. “It would take forever to explain what each instrument in this room does, though. It’s all fairly standard lab equipment; nothing strikes me as particularly odd. No traces of human experimentation, for instance. Or even animal experimentation, for that matter,” she looked around. 

“There’s an empty syringe over here,” the witcher pointed at his feet. 

“Has it been used?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you check those chests over there?” he gestured towards the other side of the room. 

“Mhm,” the sorceress nodded. “Books, mostly. A few scrolls, too. All seem to deal with the ancient Aen Seidhe.” Mora noticed that one of the books had multiple bookmarks and picked it up. “And we were right about that mummified body from earlier: there really are elven ruins under the tower, and most likely under the swamp as well.” 

“So the mage came here to study the elven ruins? That would make sense.” 

“He was more interested in spell craft than the architecture, to be honest.” 

“Did he do any research on curses? You know, like the ones that make the people of an entire village disappear?” 

“Elven tombs can have some pretty brutal enchantments guarding them, yeah. And sometimes the items we find inside are equally deadly. Like, a few years back, my former supervisor, Lydia van Bredevoort, was working on an artefact found in one of these elven necropolises. Her group only managed to activate the thing once, but the protective curse it carried killed three people and permanently crippled the other two taking part in the experiment. Van Bredevoort herself received some pretty bad burns, but worst of all, the entire lower part of her face got blown off. No-one could find a way to restore her appearance, not even in our lab that specialised on tissue regeneration, nor even Vilgefortz himself.” 

“So how did she talk, then? I mean, if she had no mouth,” the witcher asked. Mora grinned, and he felt a familiar, uncomfortable tingling in the back of his neck. 

_“Like this.”_ The sorceress’ voice rang between his temples. _“Get out, Mora!”_ “But to answer your question,” the sorceress continued, using more conventional methods of communication, “Yes, an elven curse could obliterate this entire swamp, and no mage would be particularly surprised. What’s more curious in this case is that the curse only obliterated the humans in that village, and nobody else.” 

“So we have a racist curse, then,” Coen joked. “You sure it wasn’t cast by your Scoia’tael friends?” 

“Friends” is a bit of an overstatement… But the squirrels even struggle to magically boil water for tea. Mind you, if any of them had the brains and talent to study magic, they wouldn’t be freezing their arses off in the forest pretending to be freedom fighters, would they?” 

“I suppose you’re right,” the witcher smiled. Then he added, “A spell that can obliterate a few hundred people… That’d be a level three, maybe even a level four curse. Lifting it will be troublesome at best.” 

“Lifting it would be impossible without the magically active objects used to cast it or anchor it to this location…” the sorceress muttered. 

“And those will likely be in the catacombs below.” Coen finished her sentence. 

After taking another look around the room, he added: “I don’t see any elven artefacts here. Strange, considering the mage was supposedly studying them.” 

“The tower’s not been around that long, from what Yaro told us. It could be that the mage hadn't moved all his stuff in yet, and he probably hadn’t gotten around to exploring the ruins much… Could be a number of reasons,” she shrugged. 

The sorceress then looked at the mysterious creature’s tracks, scattered all over the floor and up the second flight of stairs, leading to the floor above. 

“How fresh do these look?” she asked, pointing at the tracks on the staircase. 

“So fresh that I think our creature is on the floor above,” was the witcher’s answer. A faint shuffling noise corroborated his assessment. 

The witcher and the sorceress looked at each other. 

“There’s our vandal,” Coen whispered as he looked up. 

“Be careful, it could be able to teleport,” Mora instructed as Coen went up the stairs. She followed a few steps behind, the conjured orb of light illuminating their path. 

The room above had been the mage’s sleeping quarters, “had” being the key word. The place had been thoroughly redecorated by its new chaos-loving inhabitant. The curtains of the four poster bed were ripped, as was a tapestry representing the genealogy of the Redanian royal family. White feathers from the mattress and pillows lay scattered over every surface. Most of the furniture sported deep claw marks, which looked even deeper under the sickly light of Mora’s spell. In the center of the room stood a towering bundle of rags, paper, white and black feathers, and assorted pieces of furniture and magical instruments. It was glued together with a sticky yellow substance, the origins of which the two companions would rather not identify. It emanated the sharp, irritating smell of ammonia. 

_This must be its lair_ , Mora thought, frozen in her footsteps. 

The witcher carefully took a step towards the dark bundle. He hesitated over which sword to take out, finally opting for the steel. 

He gestured to the half-elf to stay put, without taking his eyes off the monster’s lair. Coen cautiously lifted one of the larger rags soaked with the viscous yellow fluid. 

The pile reacted to this rearrangement by emitting a revolting glopping noise. Mora prepared the third paralysis spell for the day at her fingertips. 

The witcher lifted another one of the rags, revealing a hole in the gut-churning agglomeration of trash. He squatted near the opening and lowered his sword. 

“We mean you no harm.” His thick voice sounded uncharacteristically comforting. “We just want to talk. We could help you.” He paused as the bundle rearranged itself again, and a pair of beady eyes stared into his own. Whatever hid inside took a step forward. 

The creature that stood before him belonged in no bestiary. 

If a mad sorcerer had decided to cross a raven with a human being in an attempt to mock nature, this would likely have been the result. It was about the size of a small human and waddled on two legs, the knees possessing an unnatural forward bend. The skin was a sickly bluish colour, crisscrossed by purple veins. Instead of hair, the follicles sprouted sharp black feathers. The largest and thickest quills were located on the arms and rear end. It had no visible gonads. The arms were of an unnatural length, as was the index finger on each hand. No doubt in an attempt to function as wings, Mora thought. The rest of the fingers had not receded completely, and ended in long, curved talons, matching the ones on its feet. The upper half of the body was disproportionately heavy, mostly due to the oversized pectoral muscles, which pushed the shoulders far to the back. The neck was thin and unnaturally long, the pale skin spattered with short quills and bluish veins. The neck was barely strong enough to hold the large, heavy head. 

The head was easily the most unnerving part of this mockery of nature. 

It was dominated by the massive black beak, halfway covered by skin. The lower lip had not calcified and looked vaguely human, yet the skin was stretched and hanging loose, dripping thick yellow spit over the floor. It had small eyes, black and beadlike. They conveyed no emotion, nor any trace of intelligence. 

The creature turned its head at a sharp angle to look at Mora. Similar to most birds, its eyes could not rotate in their sockets, so it had to turn from the neck in an unsettling movement. Its unblinking stare then returned to the witcher. 

“You have obviously been cursed,” Coen stated. “We can help you.” He let go of his sword and raised his empty hand, showing it to the creature. “We mean you no harm,” he repeated. 

For a second, the cursed hybrid stood immobile, its inscrutable eyes fixed on the witcher. 

Suddenly, it bolted for the stairs with a speed that should not have been possible with its unbalanced physique. Coen leaped in an attempt to grapple the creature but missed, landing flat on his face. Mora tried to hit the runaway with the paralysis spell, but it quickly hobbled down the spiral staircase and out of her line of sight. 

The witcher got up, spewed some profanities at the ugly bugger, rushed over to the staircase and jumped over the railing and onto the floor below, blocking the creature’s path. 

The abomination itself was betrayed by its unfortunate physical form and tripped as it rushed down the stairs. Finding itself in midair, it desperately flapped its wings in an attempt to avoid a tumble. The wings were nowhere strong enough to carry it through the air, so it rolled headfirst down about ten steps, only to be grappled by the witcher. His medallion shook furiously at the being’s proximity. 

Finally, Mora too reached the middle of the staircase and cast a spell to immobilize the fugitive. Panting, she joined the witcher and bent over to take a closer look at the hybrid. 

“What do you make of this, Coen?” 

“This curse… I’ve never even read about anything like it. Looks like the result of a botched polymorphism, which would make it a level two. But it just feels… bigger, in a way. Dunno, what do you think?” 

“Agree with you on the botched polymorphism part: whoever cast this curse was either a complete imbecile or an unprecedented genius.” She took her dagger out of its scabbard and rested it on the creature’s forehead. “Hmm, just as I thought…” she muttered, then turning to the witcher, she continued: “You see, this being has both been cursed and been used to anchor another curse. The polymorphism by itself is a level two, but the other curse is at least a level three, so together they feel like the mother of all curses. And the second curse also seems to involve polymorphism, I’d say.” 

“So it’s a curse within a curse, then. You poor little bugger,” he sighed at the immobilized creature. Something then crossed his mind. 

“Mora, that sorcerer you mentioned earlier, the one with the handwriting…” 

“Rothbart var Rheys. We were… somewhat close. Before I left academia altogether, of course. Why do you ask?” 

“You don’t think he could have done this?” 

“Rothbart? He had no interest in curses or polymorphism. Our lab focused on tissue regeneration with a bit of genetics on the side, which are both totally different.” She paused for a second, looking at the creature. “I don’t think this was at all cast by a classically trained mage, actually. The patterns of the Power used are far too irregular… It’s difficult to explain. But you do know the first rule of casting curses, right?” 

“One must not cast a curse without having the means to lift it. Any peasant off the street could tell you that.” 

“Precisely,” Mora nodded. “Throughout history, some have chosen to ignore it, and those attempts have invariably ended poorly. Putting a curse on top of another curse is considered bad practice, as the means to lift it are usually different from those you would use to undo each curse if they were cast separately. Essentially, the curses interact with each other, often in an unpredictable way. It could be why the polymorphism affecting this creature went awry and created this abomination.” 

“So how do we lift it, then?” 

“I’m no expert on curses; in fact, as a witcher, you probably know more about getting rid of them than I do,” the sorceress sighed. “I’ve only lifted one so far, and almost died at the hands of angry wraiths in the process, you know the story.” Coen nodded, and she continued. “I do know a few experts who would gladly publish a paper on this case, but I don’t have the means to reach them at the moment.” 

“We should run some tests on the creature. Fortunately, we find ourselves in a fully-functional mage’s laboratory, minus a couple of instruments that we won’t really need for this.” 

“Yeah, you’re right,” the half-elf agreed. “Help me carry this poor thing over to the table on the ground floor. I’ll mix up the appropriate anaesthetic and then we can start working on some diagnostic spells, which should give us some indication of what to expect.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” the witcher said, picking up the immobilised body off the floor. It was surprisingly heavy for its size and doubtlessly did not possess the hollow bones of a bird. The yellow drool dripping from its lower lip stained his cloak. 

When Coen tied the creature to the bed on the tower’s ground floor, Mora lifted the paralysis spell. The cursed being frantically wriggled and writhed, but the improvised bindings the sorceress had put in place held up. Mora herself snatched a few bottles and other magical ingredients from behind the counter and busied herself with distilling an elixir that would work both as an anaesthetic and as a means to stabilise the wild magic that gave the creature its current form. 

“We should check whether we’re dealing with a blood curse,” the witcher suggested. “I’ll start drawing the downturned pentagram around the bed.” 

“Sounds good, yeah. If you don’t have any silver-infused chalk, I think I saw some behind the counter.” 

The witcher searched through the shelves, sorting through all the magic baubles until he found the chalk. 

Mora suddenly straightened her back and locked her eyebrows in a frown, staring at the empty space in front of her. 

“Coen, we have a problem,” she announced. 

“Mm?” he turned to face her, chalk in hand. 

“It’s Yaro, he’s broken the amulet.” 

“Well plough me sideways… The swamp will be filling up with drowners soon, too. This will not be a fun trip back to the village.” 

“Forget about walking, we promised Yaro I’d teleport you there.” 

“Meh… I really hoped you had forgotten about the whole teleporting bit.” Coen’s stomach loathed portals. “Are you not coming?” he added. 

“No, these initial stages of the distillation are rather tricky, I can’t leave now. Plus, someone’s got to keep an eye on our feathery friend there.” She gestured to the bed behind the curtains. 

“Alright, then.” Coen gritted his teeth. 

Mora walked over to the door, waved her hands a bit and muttered something in the Elder Speech. The door’s outlines began to fade and twist, eventually collapsing into a mature portal. Golden-brown streaks swirled inside the tear in the fabric of space-time, as it emitted the loud roar characteristic of all portals. 

“Hang on a sec, Coen.” She placed a finger on the witcher’s forehead. _“So that I can find you if you need me.”_ He felt the psionic connection tugging gently at the back of his head. 

The witcher nodded and stepped through the portal.


	6. Chapter 6

“Master Coen! Thanks the gods it’s ye! Methought the bloody swan be conjurin’ portals to get away!”

The portal had spat Coen out in the middle of the village square, where Yaro stood outside the inn, furiously waving his crossbow about. 

The witcher fought the urge to empty the contents of his stomach, an ever-present side effect of teleportation. At least as far as witchers were concerned. 

“Uh, come again, Yaro?” Coen looked around, still slightly bent over in an attempt to control his insides. There were no obvious threats. “You broke the amulet, so I came to save your skin, as per our contract.” 

“Nevermind that, Master Coen! Look, it be a bloody swan wit’ a crown on its head!” He pointed to the other end of the square, where indeed, a large white bird could be seen scurrying away, the glitter of gold adorning its tiny head. 

“I saw the bugger spyin’ at me through the window, Master Coen,” he yelled. “Then I spotted the crown on its head and methought: “We’s rich!” I’ll betcha it lays golden eggs,too! But me old feet cannot catch that devil! Ye get it, Master Coen, and I’ll give ye a gold egg as reward! Aye, make that two of ‘em gold eggs! Quick, ‘fore the bugger flies off, ye must catch it!” 

“Yaro, get back in the inn! Right now!” the witcher hissed menacingly. The farmer stopped yelling and gave him a wide-eyed look. Seeing the glare he received back from the witcher, the old man quickly scuttled back into the inn. 

Coen bolted after the crowned bird. It probably did not lay golden eggs, yet was almost certainly connected to the other strange goings-on in this village. 

Swans are the heaviest of the flying birds; in order to lift their massive weight into the air, at least twenty meters of open water are required for takeoff. Knowing this, the witcher was certain that the swan could not fly away in the middle of the village. He sprinted after the avian as it frantically flapped its wings and progressed in short leaps towards the swamps. It moved not unlike a regular goose running away from a farmer’s wife in a futile attempt to avoid becoming soup. 

Dusk had settled over Tandel-in-the-Swamps, and would soon give way to the cold, pitch-black darkness of the late-autumn night. The lack of light presented no obstacle for Coen’s mutated eyes, nor did his body tire as he ran after the swan. Nostrils flared, his breaths were deep and even, his superhuman muscles carried him as fast as any horse would. 

The swan realised that nothing short of a miracle could save it from the witcher. 

Fortunately, a miracle was forthcoming. Only a few seconds remained until dusk turned to night. 

The pattern of the witcher’s footsteps changed as he sprung forward, hoping to grapple the runaway. The bird took a final, desperate leap. Seeing this, Coen adjusted his body in mid-air and landed elegantly on his feet, maintaining perfect balance. Yet no amount of witcher training could prepare him for the sight that unfolded before him. 

While flapping its wings through the air, the swan caught on fire. Green fire, to be precise. 

It froze a few steps above the ground; wings spread wide, its beautiful long neck bent back in a way that doubtlessly caused pain. The swan emitted a shriek of an unmistakably human nature. 

Slowly, the neck began to shorten, while the legs lengthened and lost their black colouration. The skin rejected the swan’s white feathers and they fell softly to the ground, encased in green flames. The beak receded into the head, and Coen watched in horror as teeth grew from its skull before the lips managed to grow in and cover them. The wings lengthened and thinned out. Finally, fingers began to protrude, at first shapeless and covered in slime, then joints appeared within them. In the last step of the transformation, the fingernails grew and solidified. 

In front of Coen was a young woman with long, strawberry-blonde hair. Her limp body hung in the air, gloriously naked. 

When the green flames subsided and the body began to fall to the ground, the witcher bolted and grabbed the girl before she found herself lying in the cold mud. The woman looked up at Coen with a misty gaze. Her large, emerald green eyes focused on him and became even larger and rounder with fright. She gasped, the white mist of her breath hanging in the space between the witcher’s face and hers. 

Looking at her, the witcher was made painfully aware of all his shortcomings. Despite having the lean and powerful body of a mutant monster slayer, his face had permanently been scarred by the many illnesses he had suffered as a child, before being brought to Kaer Morhen. He tried to hide the scars under a full beard, which had not been trimmed in weeks and was ridden with lice, same as his matted, dull, brown hair. His armour had never possessed considerable shine, and now was also covered in swamp mud and that rancid yellow gunk spewed by the creature from the tower. 

But he knew that the most unsettling thing about him were the eyes. To be able to hunt monsters, witchers needed to see through the eyes of one. Yellow eyes with vertical pupils, cold and inscrutable, showing no mercy, no remorse, the very reason why witchers were believed to not possess any emotion. 

How was this girl ever going to believe that he meant her no harm? 

She was trembling, huddled against his chest. Her breathing was ragged and shallow, and he didn’t need his witcher senses to feel her heart flutter like that of a captured bird. 

He carefully released her from his hold and let her stand on her own feet. She felt his gaze slide over her naked frame and instinctively flinched. Her eyes focused on the ground so as not to meet with his. 

The girl was not exactly a beauty worthy of immortalising in song, and looked barely older than sixteen. Yet her hips were pleasantly rounded, her breasts were full and firm, and she gave off an air of fragility and warmth that made the witcher wish that his eyes still had their natural blue colour, that his hair were golden, or at least clean, and that he owned a white horse and а big manor where he could take this girl and protect her from the evils of the world. 

He also wished that his breeches would stop feeling so tight. 

Incidentally, Mora had also been without any clothes when he first laid eyes on her. Only on that occasion he had been the one who flinched under the sorceress’ gaze, despite being fully clothed. This reminded Coen of something else. 

_“MOORAAAAA!_ ” He tugged as hard as he could on the psionic bond linking him to the half-elf. 

_“Ouch… Melitele’s tits, Coen, there’s no need to yell! The connection had already been established…”_ It was an immediate and somewhat irritated reply. 

_“Mora, you need to get your butt over here now. Look at this!”_ He focused on the scene in front of him in an attempt to relay the image to the sorceress. 

_“Coen, you sick bastard! If you really want someone to watch you while you’re doing it, go get Yaro. I’m sure his old eyes would be delighted.”_

_“This is one of those times when you are seriously infuriating, Mora.”_

_“Okay, okay. I’ll be there, just give me a quarter hour. The girl is terrified and freezing. Make sure she’s comfortable and talkative by the time I get there, please. And stop staring with your mouth open!”_

How she had known that his mouth was hanging open was a complete mystery to the witcher. 

The conversation had succeeded in bringing him back to his senses. He undid the clasp of his cloak, which evoked another gasp from the girl, and she turned away in an attempt to flee. Coen grasped her hand and flung the cloak around the girl’s shoulders. 

“You’re freezing,” he muttered in his softest and most reassuring tone. “Please, take this too.” He unraveled the woolen scarf from around his neck and handed it over to the former swan. She stood perfectly immobile, her round green eyes fixed on the witcher. 

“So, you’re not going to…” Her voice quivered. 

“No…no.” Coen shook his head. “I want to help you. Something terrible has happened in this village.” 

The girl said nothing. She merely nodded while breathing into her cupped hands, trying to bring some warmth back into her newly-formed digits. 

“It’s going to start snowing again soon. We need to get you next to a warm fire.” 

They were at the end of the village, on the border of the marshes. Coen led the girl into the first house he saw and used the Igni sign to start a lively fire. He pulled up a chair next to the fireplace and gestured to her to do the same. 

She looked at the fire for a second, then moved her wide-eyed stare to the man. 

“You are a witcher, then?” She cocked her head to one side. Her accent reminded him of Yaro’s, but, unlike the farmer, she was careful with her grammar. 

“I am, yes. Coen of Poviss, pleased to make your acquaintance.” He nodded respectfully. “Although I do regret that we meet under such circumstances,” he smiled. The girl smiled back. She reached towards the fire, letting its heat warm her palms. 

“I’m Odila Andell, the mayor’s daughter.” Coen had suspected as much. “It’s good to meet you, master witcher.” 

He nodded in acknowledgement. 

“Here, have some of this.” He took a flask out of his pocket, unscrewed the cap and filled it up with a clear liquid with a slight orange tint. Upon seeing the look on the girl’s face, he added, “If I had wanted to do something to you, I would have already done it, Odila.” 

“I’m sorry, master witcher, it’s just that—“ 

“I know… Can’t blame you for being careful, not with everything that’s been going on around here.” He looked into the girl’s eyes with his most compassionate look, an expression witchers found particularly difficult. “The brew’s nothing suspicious, just some rather strong apricot brandy. Should bring some warmth back into your bones.” 

“Oh, thanks.” She reached for the cap and took it from his hand. Her touch was icy. 

“I think I also have a ham sandwich around here somewhere... You’re probably starving.” He searched through the various pouches and pockets that littered his clothes. 

“Yes, food’s been harder to come by lately. Even for us swans.” The witcher smiled at the joke, but decided not to push the conversation in the direction of swans and curses. The girl would tell him everything once she felt comfortable enough. He handed her the sandwich, which she gladly accepted. 

“So, your friend is a sorceress?” 

The question caught Coen by surprise. 

“She is, yeah. How’d you figure it out?” 

“Well she’s not Yaro’s wife, that’s for sure, and according to Master Dandelion’s ballads, witchers and sorceresses get along quite well, if you catch my drift.” 

Coen knew entirely too well what she meant by “getting along”. 

“It’s not what you think… Mora and I… We’re not exactly Geralt and Yennefer, you know.” 

“Meaning neither of you attempted to trap a genie and then told it to go and do rude things with itself?” 

“That too, I guess. How do you know Yaro by name?” He was glad to shift the topic away from his semi-existent love-life. 

“He comes here a few times each year. His sister is married to one of old Ivan’s sons, they live in a big house just off the main square. What witcher school are you from, by the way?” She was glad to shift the conversation back to the lives of witchers. Coen had no idea how Dandelion’s works had created such a profound interest in all things witcher-related, spreading even as far as this remote village. 

“School of the Wolf,” he answered curtly, bracing himself for the barrage of questions that would doubtlessly follow. Odila’s eyes became even larger with excitement. 

“So you’ve met Geralt of Rivia? What is he really like? You hear all of these stories about the Butcher of Blaviken, they all paint him as this absolute monster. And then there’s Master Dandelion’s portrayal, which is so human… I mean, I think that Geralt’s just this tragically misunderstood man, who secretly only wants to be recognised and loved, that’s why he gets involved in all these heroic deeds. I also think the plight of witchers in general is very tragic… You never asked to become mutants, and everyone hates you for it…” 

“You seem to confuse witchers with abandoned puppies,” Coen laughed,” Who want nothing more than to be picked up by a beautiful maiden and pampered for the rest of their days.” 

“Am I wrong?” She cocked her head to one side and looked into his yellow eyes. 

“The desire to be pampered by a beautiful maiden is common to all men, witchers just happen to be a part of that set. As for Geralt, I think you have read one too many ballads. Let me tell you what I know about the real White Wolf.” The last sentence provided him with Odila’s full and undivided attention. She absorbed every word as Coen regaled her with anecdotes from his life at Kaer Morhen. He even told her about Geralt’s scribbles on his copy of Dandelion’s book of ballads.


	7. Chapter 7

Mora removed the flask holding the distillate from the complex network of copper tubes and glassware. She sucked up the liquid into a syringe and headed towards the far corner of the room, where the cursed creature lay tied to the bed.

“Unfortunately, this is going to hurt more than I intended it to, I’m sorry,” she uttered apologetically. If she was to help Coen anytime soon, she had to speed up the potion’s preparation, and this meant that while the brew would work to stabilize the curse, it would not be a very strong anesthetic. 

When the creature saw the syringe, it began to frantically wriggle and writhe. Its black, beady eyes were incapable of conveying emotion, but the sharp, gargling sounds coming from its throat communicated its terror quite clearly. It tried to open and close its mouth, perhaps in an attempt at speech. All that accomplished was that more of the thick, yellow saliva dripped down its hanging lower lip and onto Mora’s boots. 

“I know, I know,” Mora sighed. She genuinely felt bad for the thing. “Let’s hope the pain knocks you out quickly, that might be best for you right now. It’ll be over soon, promise.” 

With a deft motion, she stuck the needle into the creature’s hip and injected the potion. 

For a few seconds, the being lay silent, its eyes resting on the sorceress. Its breaths were shallow and ragged. Mora stood at the bedside, tensely awaiting the moment when the brew’s effects would kick in. 

The creature’s eyes widened so far that white rings appeared around its pitch black irises. Spasms ran through its muscles. It arched its back, emitting an earsplitting shriek. 

Mora winced and pursed her lips: the sight was not pretty. There was a second shriek, and a third. The hybrid’s vocal cords were beginning to wear themselves out, and soon the shrieks turned to hissing and gargling, yellow saliva splattering all around. 

Finally, the being collapsed onto the sheets. Its body had had the good sense to shut itself off from the pain, at least for a few minutes. Mora took the opportunity to cast a spell that would keep the creature in that condition for about another hour. 

“Inducing fainting through magic is risky, but prolonging it should not harm you,” she said gently as she unbound the creature from the bed. After taking a moment to steady herself, the sorceress checked Coen’s location through the psionic bond established earlier. She took a deep breath and opened the portal. Mora lifted the creature with considerable effort. Her cloak, boots and overskirt now dripped with its yellow drool. 

She straightened her back and stepped through the tear in space. 

*** 

“And then, it turned out that the queen had ordered the bells to ring a full hour earlier, so that Duny the Hedgehog’s secret would be revealed, and…” Coen’s story was interrupted by a loud noise, followed by a flash of light. 

Odila stared in awe as the air in the far corner of the room formed a vortex of golden light that thundered like a waterfall. Mora appeared from within, carrying the limp body of the cursed creature. 

Coen had always wondered how sorceresses were able to retain their poise and posture under all kinds of circumstances. Even though Mora avoided the life of luxury favoured by most practitioners of her craft and chose to dress like the locals, there was no way to mistake her for a farmer’s wife. 

She was quite tall for a human woman, and her pointed features and slanted eyes immediately identified her as a half-elf. The woolen scarf she wore wrapped around her head had fallen to her shoulders, showing her pointed ears and dark, straight hair, kept in a loose braid. On her left hip hung an elegant elven sabre, and the obsidian dagger, wrapped in a piece of cloth, hung on her right. The sorceress did not seem at all phased by the fact that her clothes were covered in swamp mud and the creature’s drool, and carried herself with the easy confidence typical of magic-users. Odila stared at her with a mixture of curiosity and admiration. The mayor’s daughter then noticed the limp creature in the sorceress’ arms and her expression changed to one of horror. 

“Poor Svetlyo… He was the first,” she muttered. 

Both the witcher and the sorceress focused their full attention on the girl. 

“The first of what?” Mora asked as she laid the creature on the ground. Odila did not reply, her gaze fixed on the cursed hybrid. 

“Odila, this is my friend, Mora.” Coen tried to break the girl from her stupor. “Mora, this is Odila, the village mayor’s daughter.” The sorceress nodded. 

“Mora Zadgorska, Magister of Aretuza. Pleased to meet you, Odila,” she smiled warmly at the flustered girl. 

“Likewise.” Odila’s voice trembled. Her gaze alternated between Mora’s face and the creature’s limp body. 

“Mora and I can help you,” Coen uttered softly. “I realise this is painful for you, Odila, but you need to tell us what happened here, as best you can.” 

The girl looked him in the eyes for a moment, then huddled tighter into Coen’s cloak. 

“Everything was fine until He came,” she began. Her round green eyes stared at the floor with a vacant expression. “I mean the wizard from the tower. There was no tower at that point yet, he brought it along later… Scared the living blazes out of all of us, that tower did. Towers aren’t meant to just appear like that… 

“But, um, back to the beginning. He came here just after the harvest festival, said he was a scholar interested in elven ruins. True enough, folk find these weird stones and swords and things in the swamps sometimes. But we told him he shouldn’t go wandering about the swamps too much, there are wraiths, and foglets sometimes, and drowned ones that come out after dark… He talked a lot to the villagers: wanted to know about the area, and our history, where people had come from. Our village is next to the road, you know, so we’ve got people coming from a lot of places. Like old Ivan’s parents , for example, they came from the Blue Mountains. But… that’s not important, I guess.” 

Mora and Coen nodded. 

“Could you tell us more about the wizard?” the witcher asked. 

“Um… He looked young, but I’ve heard that all sorcerers make themselves younger. And, well… He was very handsome.” Her cheeks flushed ever so slightly. “And he was kind to everyone, and really clever. He stayed at the inn, just next to my house, and we would talk sometimes. Often, actually. He told me that he wanted to go down into the ruins, but would need a guide, someone from the village who knew his way around the swamps. So I told him about Svetlyo, he was the village hunter. Pretty much the only person I could think of who wasn’t scared to go out there. 

“The two of them went out into the swamps one day. Then there was a big storm, and they didn’t return for the next few days. Most folks thought that the drowned ones got them, or the foglets did, or the water hags… Then the tower appeared one day, and the entire village panicked… But to be honest with you…” The girl lifted her stare from the floor and looked at Mora and Coen. “I was relieved that the mage was still alive… Ugh! I can’t believe I was so stupid!” She was about to break into tears. Mora placed her hand on top of hers. 

“Everything will be fine. What happened to you is not your fault, Odila.” A warm and calm feeling ran through the girl, and she managed to calm down. Steadying herself, she continued. 

“My parents were going to marry me off to this man from the neighboring village, but… I did not like him at all. He was ugly, and he kicked my favorite donkey that one time… And then one day mum told me what I had to do with him on the wedding night, and… I didn’t want to do it. I… I didn’t want him inside of me, didn’t want to bear him children. I thought about his children growing in my body, feeding off of it, it’s only natural, after all… And it disgusted me. But that’s just how things are around here.” 

Mora pursed her lips. That’s how things had been in her village as well, only nobody would have wanted to marry a half-elf, regardless of whether she was related to the mayor or not. She squeezed Odila’s hand in encouragement. The conversation was already getting very tough on the girl. 

“So while everyone was busy talking about the tower, my wedding day approached. And the night before, I just could not take it. And I did something incredibly stupid, but… Please understand, it was the only thing I could think of at the time.” She took a deep breath. 

“I ran away from home and went to the wizard’s tower. He wasn’t from around here, and you know, looked like he had the power to help me. And this seems silly and childish now, but… I thought he fancied me. My father definitely thought that he fancied me, so he forbade me from speaking to the wizard. And when they discovered I had run away from home, they headed straight to the tower, of course.” 

“So you ran through the swamp all by yourself, and at night?” Coen asked. “You must have been incredibly lucky.” 

“Melitele must have taken pity on me that night… I don’t remember much, apart from seeing some drowned ones in the distance. It was a moonlit night, so I could more or less see where I was going… I had never been so scared in my life. And then when I arrived at the tower and he was there… I was just so happy. He didn’t ask any questions, just gave me a bed and a mug of cocoa. I had never tried cocoa before, it was lovely. 

“But then the next day I saw that Svetlyo wasn’t there, and I asked where he was… And the wizard told me he got killed by a powerful water hag, that there was nothing he could do to save him. And I believed him! I would believe anything he said, he had just rescued me from marrying that horrid man. And I was convinced he cared about me… 

“My father showed up around noon, along with the groom’s parents and some other relatives. They demanded the sorcerer let me go, or they would burn down the tower with all of us in it. I was scared they might see me through the windows on the first floor, so I made my way up to the laboratory.” 

She paused, and Mora and Coen knew better than to push her in that particular moment. The light of the fire drew curious figures along their faces, and the only sound that could be heard were the quiet, shallow breaths of the unconscious cursed creature. When Odila continued, her voice was cracking. 

“When I went upstairs… I saw that.” She pointed at the limp body lying on the ground. “And I screamed so loud… I had never seen anything like it before. I asked the mage what that creature was. He told me it was some monster he had pulled out from the ruins, but it just looked so familiar… And I had this feeling in my gut, and my gut feelings are never wrong. So I asked him: “Is this Svetlyo?” And he got very mad, and said he was offended and did not deserve to be treated this way after risking his skin and his work to provide me with shelter… But he wouldn’t look me in the eye. And for the first time since we met, I was afraid of him. Terrified. I was terrified. And the folks outside heard me scream, and they thought that he was doing terrible things to me. And at that point I realized how foolish I had been… He hadn’t taken me in because he loved me, he… He had taken me in as a test subject, and was going to do with me what he had done to Svetlyo. I was such an idiot.” She covered her face with her hands, shaking her head. 

“So I screamed for help, for my father to come and get me. I called for them to burn down the tower and everything in it… It felt like being burnt alive was still better than being transformed into… Into something like that… 

“Then the wizard got incredibly angry, and he pulled out a staff. And right there, on the spot, he turned us all into swans. At first none of us realized it, I just felt like I had collapsed on the ground. The wizard kicked me out the window and I panicked, but instead of falling and breaking my neck, I somehow missed the ground and soared upwards. I couldn’t see my relatives anywhere, only a flock of swans. And then I flew back to the village, and there were swans everywhere… He had cursed us all. 

“I’ve been living like this since: a swan by day, human by night. All of the others are stuck as swans all the time, as far as I know. The village got plundered several times over, I always tried to stay out of the way. And then you came, along with Yaro. I didn’t know who the two of you were, but Yaro is an old family friend, I thought he might help. Only he started chasing me, convinced I was the goose that lays golden eggs.” 

“I just wanted to ask you one thing, Odila.” Mora said gently when the girl finished her story. “What was the name of the wizard from the tower?” 

“Rothbart. Rothbart var Rheys.” 

Coen’s eyes widened. He had had the sneaking suspicion that Mora’s old acquaintance was involved in this story from the moment she had recognized his handwriting in the tower.


	8. 8

“So where is he now, do you know?” the witcher asked.

“Rothbart? Uhm… I don’t, really... Guess he could have teleported away?” Odila responded in a shaky voice. Mora remained in her seat, her gaze fixed on the mayor’s daughter.

 “Mora, you can track teleports, can’t you? Let’s go down into the ruins, look for Rothbart… And if he’s teleported away, we will track him, bring him back, and force him to sort this mess out.” Coen fastened the swords on his back and checked the positions of all his hidden bombs and weapons.

Mora did not seem to share his enthusiasm for action. She shifted her gaze from Odila back  to the witcher.

“Tracking a teleport from over two weeks ago might prove a tad problematic.” Her tone was even and disquietingly calm. “And to be honest with you, Coen, something about this all doesn’t quite make sense to me.” She went back to staring at Odila. Coen noticed that she wasn’t looking at the girl so much as through her, as if evaluating something.

Odila fidgeted under Coen’s cloak, uncomfortable at being examined by the sorceress. She shot the witcher a troubled glance.  He pursed his lips and turned to the half-elf.

“Mora, I understand that you have a history with this particular mage and want to defend him, mages’ solidarity and all… But all our evidence points against him! My job is to protect people from shite like this!”

“Your job, witcher, is to protect people from monsters. Mage problems are to be dealt with by other mages.” Mora’s voice was icy and harsh. Upon seeing Coen’s disconcerted expression, she softened her tone. “Coen, Rothbart is very powerful, maybe more powerful than I am.  And you have no experience whatsoever fighting mages.”

“So we should just leave Odila and the other villagers to their fate and carry on as if nothing happened, is that what you’re saying?”

“Coen, calm down. Yes, I do know Rothbart from before. His defining characteristics are his good looks, sharp mind, thirst for power and an in-built propensity to suck up to his superiors. That is also how I know that the only reason he would come to this backwater village is because Vilgefortz sent him here. And Vilgefortz is not looking for elven artefacts at the moment. At least not the kinds that stay buried in old ruins.”

“How do you know that, Mora? You left Vilgefortz’s service over a year ago.”

“Because if the rumors are true, he still hasn’t found what he’s looking for and is now on the hunt for something that could act as a substitute.” She looked at Odila again, cocking her head ever so slightly.

“Odila, did Rothbart ever tell you that you are a source?”

The girl could only muster another one of her wide-eyed stares.

“A source… As in I could become a sorceress?”

“Yes, that kind of source.” Mora nodded. “And a pretty powerful one, at that.” Odila did not respond, nor did Mora follow up with any questions. Coen felt his medallion flutter.

“Mora… What _is_ Vilgefortz looking for, then?” He broke the silence and found himself under the scrutiny of Mora’s black eyes again. The ice had gone from her expression, and he knew the half-elf well enough to see that she was busy choosing her words. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly: she did not like what she was about to say.

“He’s researching _Hen Ichaer,_ the Elder Blood.”

Coen’s eyebrows shot up.

“He’s researching the Elder Blood?” He was visibly skeptical. “As in Ithlinne’s Prophecy “The world will be engulfed by the White Frost, the seed will go up in flames and so on” kind of Elder Blood?”

“That is the only kind of Elder Blood that I’m aware of, yes.”

“I thought mages knew better than to chase after the drugged ramblings of long-dead elves.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I see... And what does he want to do with the _Hen Ichaer,_ stop the coming of the White Frost?” Тhe sorceress ignored his nervous sarcasm.

“He’s more interested in the more… technical… aspects. You hear people refer to it as a curse, but we know that the Elder Blood is a genetic element. In short, if you’re born with the gene, you get incredible abilities: travelling through time and space at will, receiving prophetic visions, the list goes on. Some carriers express it more strongly than others, of course.”

“And by “carriers” you mean the descendants of Lara Dorren?”

“Yes. Lara Dorren herself was the product of an elven breeding program, although the Elven Sages would have you think it was destiny or predetermination or some such nonsense. Then, Lara literally screwed over their experiments by breeding with a human. But if you ask someone like Vilgefortz, that’s the best thing that could happen. I mean, an elven generation is what: one hundred, two hundred years? Even an elven sage would see his balls turn blue before seeing any results from that research.”

“Whereas as now that there are about five generations of human carriers, so you can track inheritance patterns and all that.”

“Exactly. Of course, Vilgefortz would prefer to get his hands on Cirilla of Cintra, but since her disappearance from Thanedd Isle this summer, he’s moved on to the next best thing.” She looked over to Odila.

“And because humans like to shag a lot more than elves do, the gene’s somehow reached as far as Tandel-in-the-Swamps,” the witcher concluded.

“Yeah, some royal bastard from Lara’s line must have married into the mayor’s family at some point.”

“Seems a bit far-fetched, but alright. There’s just one thing I’m not quite clear on, Mora. I mean, what exactly does Vilgefortz want to do with these carriers once he has them? Do a little breeding of his own?”

“Oh, Vilgefortz is not content with merely having an heir with the Elder Blood. What he wants to do is become a carrier himself. He’s already one of the most powerful magic-users alive, and with the Elder Blood in his veins, he could easily crush Nilfgaard, or any other country.”

“He can do that? Change his own genes?” Coen asked incredulously.

“That’s where it gets ugly, isn’t it?”Odila’s voice was cold and distant as she locked gazes with Mora. The girl’s eyes were no longer round with fear. Green flames danced within them as she eyed the sorceress with a mixture of anger and disgust.

It was now Mora’s turn to avoid Odila’s scathing glare.

 “I’m not going to lie to you, Odila, I did work with Vilgefortz, and with Rothbart. But when I found out what that mad sorcerer was actually doing, I ran away. Rothbart stayed. And I understand why he did… I mean, the things Vilgefortz achieved… They’re hard to fathom…  Monumental, groundbreaking.”

“Hang on,” Coen interrupted. “What _was_ Vilgefortz doing, then?” His gaze alternated between the sorceress and the mayor’s daughter.

“Rothbart explained it to me…” Odila started. Mora shot her a disbelieving glance.

“He told you what Vilgefortz was planning to do with you? Just like that? Did he also tell you that you’re a carrier of the Elder Blood?”

“Yes.” Odila nodded. She still eyed the sorceress with suspicion, yet the flames in her eyes were gone.

“Hang on, both of you!” It was Coen’s second attempt to interrupt. “What does Vilgefortz want to do with Odila?”

They looked at each other. Mora shifted uncomfortably and turned to the witcher.

“He… “She hesitated. “Coen, have you heard of stem cells? They’re… It’s a kind of tissue that can be used to make other kinds of tissues. Almost any other kind of tissue.”

“Sounds useful.”

“Yes, it’s very useful.” Mora’s voice was regaining its confidence, but she spoke with a clinical detachment. “And if you can extract stem cells containing Lara Dorren’s gene, then add a few of Vilgefortz’s genius spells, well, you can mimic the effects of the Elder Blood. Temporarily, at least.”

“And this “extraction” is the unpleasant part, I take it?”

“Yes. Exactly. There are different kinds of stem cells, too, I won’t bore you with the details. What matters is that Vilgefortz likes to extract them from the donor’s placenta…” her voice trailed off. Odila’s posture was stiff, her gaze pointed to the ground. Coen’s eyes narrowed.

“So he was abducting pregnant women and experimenting on them?”

“It was worse than that, actually. They weren’t pregnant yet when he… recruited them. The actual extraction was highly invasive. Particularly, in the early trials he had us focus on obtaining material rather than preserving the subjects. The mortality rate improved once the local supply decreased and villagers began to notice a pattern in the disappearances.”

“And you took part in this? Mora, I…” Coen knew that there were things in her past that the sorceress kept hidden from him over their months of travelling together, but he couldn’t imagine the half-elf willingly harvested foetuses from unconscious villagers.

“Not my… proudest achievement, I assure you. I suggested several optimisations to the procedure, hoping it make it a bit less… barbaric. But Vilgefortz enjoyed it. The twisted bastard reveled in the power he had over their helpless, unconscious bodies. Making sacrifices for the advancement of magic is one thing, but Vilgefortz – he is a sadistic bastard.”

“Making sacrifices is so easy when you’re not the one being sacrificed, huh, sorceress?” Odila hissed. “When it is not you who will spend the rest of your life drugged in a dungeon, used as… as livestock to fuel the power fantasies of this “brilliant” wizard of yours!” The girl was livid, her chest heaving violently under Coen’s cloak, eyes shooting daggers at the half-elf. The witcher’s medallion fluttered restlessly.

“Odila, please, you need to calm down. We can help you,” he tried to assuage her. She paid him no heed.

“I… I understand how you feel, Odila,” Mora sighed. “Vilgefortz’s actions cannot be justified, and I genuinely regret putting up with them for so long. But at this point, nothing I can say will change your mind about me, so I will not waste my breath. I think we’ll all benefit from focusing on the situation at hand.” She looked at Coen, who nodded in approval. Odila didn’t interrupt, so the sorceress continued.

“Now, I know that you lied to us about some things before. I don’t blame you for not trusting us, that is completely understandable considering… well, everything that’s happened. But Rothbart turning you into a swan, and then kicking you out the window? You have to admit that’s a bit too much to believe. And no trained mage would cast such a sloppy polymorph spell, not to mention couple it to a curse. Rothbart may be lacking in the ethics department, but he is a brilliant spellcaster. Not to mention --”

“More importantly,” Coen interrupted, largely to prevent the sorceress from indulging into an unnecessarily technical explanation of magical concepts, “If you were the main reason he was in the village, how come he left you behind? Why did he tell you what Vilgefortz wanted you for, when it would have been much easier to convince you to elope with him, then drug you and hand you over to Vilgefortz?” Odila winced at the last part, and Mora raised an eyebrow at the witcher.

“I’m sorry, I should not have been so blunt about the drugging part, but you could see that your story does not hold up,” he finished.

The girl sighed. She shifted in her chair, eyes fixed on the floor. Her features sampled a range of expressions, finally settling on something akin to regret. She looked at Mora and Coen, biting her lip.

“Most of what I said was true… Up to the part about Svetlyo. He came back to the village safe and sound, and he told us that the mage summoned the tower. Not that it wasn’t obvious, but… Anyway. The part about me running to the tower at night is also true: I really didn’t want to get married. And I did fancy Rothbart, and… he did fancy me back. Loved me, even.  Before he headed out into the swamps, he told me that I was a source. That once his work here was done, he would take me to Aretuza, where I would train to be a sorceress, and we would be together. I… I don’t think I can make you understand how much I wanted to get out. You… You don’t understand how… suffocating life is here. And you’re not given any choice, on anything. Until you get married, you obey your family. They decide who you will marry, and then you obey your husband. And being a sorceress… You do as you please, and if anyone crosses you, well, you turn them into a toad, or a heap of smoldering ash…”

“Or a flock of swans…” Mora seemed more impressed than shocked by the revelation. “You turned them into swans… And the creature – that’s Rothbart?”

Odila nodded, then shot a worried glance at the motionless body of the cursed creature.  “When my family showed up at the tower, I was just so scared they would drag me back to the village, you know… So I went to Rothbart and begged him to protect me from them, and he told me that everything was going to be alright, and… And I really wanted to believe him, and I wanted to make him promise that it would be alright, I really wanted to… I felt this shivering throughout my body, and the skin on my face felt like it was full of pins and needles, I was just terrified. And then his eyes did this strange thing and glazed over, as though he couldn’t focus on anything anymore, and… And he just looked so sad…And then he told me that it would not be alright. That it would be better for me if I went back to my family, because he wasn’t here to study the ruins, he was here to get me… And then bring me to this Vilgefortz, who would do horrible things to me… And when I asked him why me, he said it’s because of this “elder blood”, and just… I just felt so betrayed, I told him that I wished he had just kidnapped me, instead of putting up this whole charade, pretending to be in love with me, and… Do you know what he said next? He said he loved me! For real! But I didn’t believe him this time, I mean this was someone who came here with the sole purpose of taking this village girl, who’s done nothing to no one, and hand her over to his crazy boss to do gods know what horrible experiments with… How could a person like that love? I just… I just wanted it all to end. I wanted him gone, I wanted  this whole village gone, I wanted them all gone!” Her eyes were wide open, nostrils flared, and her breathing was heavy and ragged. Mora was looking at the girl with a genuinely compassionate expression that Coen had rarely seen her wear. Odila  took a moment to compose herself.

“I don’t know why I turned them into birds, I mean I’ve read stories about sorceresses turning people into animals, so maybe… I don’t know. I mean, Rothbart always reminded me of a raven a bit, I guess…”

“I know just what you mean,” Mora chuckled. “It’s the hooked nose and the penchant for flowy black robes. So first you turned Rothbart into a raven, and then cast the curse on the villagers?”

“I suppose. I’m not entirely sure what happened, I wasn’t thinking straight, I was furious. I remember feeling cold, then hot, pins and needles in all my limbs, and trembling, and then I couldn’t see all of a sudden, it was terrifying. I think I must have passed out then. When I woke up, the first thing I saw was this vile creature standing over me, and I panicked, I didn’t realise it was Rothbart. And  when I screamed, this weird hiss came out instead of my voice, and nothing in my body felt right and… well, you know the rest.”

“How did you find out the creature was Rothbart?”

“He’s almost… lucid… from time to time. I mean, he can’t speak because of the beak, but he definitely recognises me at least some of the time. And he tries to protect me, bless him.”

“Protect you from what?” Coen asked. “We saw that the village has been thoroughly pillaged over the past few weeks, but was there anything else?”

“Yes. I think Rothbart was worried that Vilegfortz would send someone over to check on him, now that he was no longer able to send reports, but no-one came. Until the other day, when another sorcerer arrived. It was late afternoon and I was with Rothbart near the edge of the village. He was having one of his more lucid episodes. We heard a portal appear and Rothbart panicked and rushed off to the tower. I’ve noticed that when he goes back, he’s always trying to destroy pieces of the lab…”

“He was making sure that no-one could know about you!” Mora exclaimed. She had the delighted expression of someone who is beginning to see the pieces fall into place. “Coen, that’s why the metallocrystal detector and the lab books were shredded and dumped out in the swamp, Rothbart couldn’t dispose of them in another way.”

“So did you see who came out of the portal? Was it Vilgefortz?” She asked.

“It was just one mage. He was very tall, had very long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and pointy ears. He was either an elf or a half elf, I think.”

Mora sighed in relief.

“Definitely not Vilgefortz, then, and yes, a half-elf. That was Arien of Maribor, he’s one of Vilgefortz’s assistants.”

“So is he still in the village? It’s strange that we haven’t seen him yet.”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think he’s teleported away, we would have heard the portal… Rothbart’s been more on edge than usual these past two days, which makes me think he’s still here. But again,  I hid out in the swamps until I saw you and Yaro arrive, so I’m not sure.”

“Strange that he hadn’t gone to the tower, that would be the most logical place for him to start searching. But I found no fresh human tracks there, and the golem was still functional.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow managed to sneak past it, he was always good at passing undetected. We always found that a bit creepy, but he also had the best –“

Coen watched as the sorceress froze mid-sentence, then felt a tightening around his ribs as he too fell victim to the paralysis spell.


End file.
